


The Door in the Wall

by Abhorsen44



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: First Kiss, First Meetings, John is a Prince, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-03
Updated: 2014-05-26
Packaged: 2017-12-10 05:58:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,919
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/782608
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Abhorsen44/pseuds/Abhorsen44
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There is a Wall that surrounds the Kingdom, and one day Sherlock finds a Door in the Wall that shouldn't be there. </p><p>"The Wall was interesting from Sherlock’s point of view due to all of the small unexpected rooms necessitated by the narrow confines in which to set up private laboratories and the dichotomy between life within the walls (limited to guards and their families, all of whom were uniformly dull) and the world outside the wall, the town filled with crime and puzzles and quite frankly appallingly stupid people on one side and foreign wilderness on the other." </p><p>and John is a Prince. Of course.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Hole in the Wall

**Author's Note:**

> I tried to write a fairy tale and failed spectacularly.... this is the result. 5 chapters of oddity. Enjoy?

Chapter One: The Hole in the Wall

 

Bored. Bored bored bored. Sherlock is bored.

Sherlock languidly loaded the crossbow and pointed it at the wall.

Twang. Thunk. Sigh. “Bored.”

Greg came running into the room and skidded to a halt in front of Sherlock who had curled himself around the crossbow on the couch. Greg looked disbelievingly from the wall back to Sherlock and said, ‘Sherlock, did you shoot an arrow into the wall?!”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. Obvious. Everything was so obvious and so completely boring.

“You can’t just fire weapons in the guardhouse, Sherlock!” After a quick tussle for the crossbow that Greg wins (because he couldn’t be bothered, Sherlock tells himself), Sherlock whines, “But I’m BORED. Why can’t I go after that missing carriage?” Not that it would be all that interesting a case, it’s obviously a poorly disguised elopement and not bandits, but Sherlock is willing to make concessions to relieve the unending dullness that he has been subjected to these last few days.

“No. Last time you left the Wall you grossly insulted the Lady Kent.”

“Then she should have made it less obvious that she was returning from her weekly adultery session with her jeweler. She wasn’t even wearing underthings. I mean, really.”

“That’s not the point, Sherlock! You cannot go around insulting nobility; real, proper conversations do not go, ‘Good Morning, lads,’ ‘Did you have fun fellating Mr. Samson last night? Oh, and this morning, interesting.’ And Anderson tells me that he’s missing equipment again.”

“Anderson!” Sherlock scoffs, “That idiot couldn’t set up a functioning laboratory to save his life.”

“That doesn’t mean you can nick things for one of your private labs, Sherlock! These things have to be requisitioned, supervised. Especially when it comes to you. No more fires within the Wall! And give back the missing equipment!”

Sherlock looked impassively up at the now shouting Inspector Lestrade and considered saying, ‘I have no idea what you are talking about,’ but settled on as simple, “No.”

“Dammit, Sherlock!” Greg said, and added an oddly fond, “You ass. If you weren’t so good at picking out criminals I’d throw you outside the Wall myself. Is that what you want, Sherlock?”

“It might at least be NOT BORING.”

“The Wall functions within very strict guidelines, Sherlock. We are the literal embodiment of the border; we are the first line of defense against everything outside the Wall. Just because we are the farthest guardhouse from the capitol does not mean that we can disobey the letter of the law. Your constant refusal to join the guards except on a ‘consulting basis’ is damaging our credibility.”

“Dull. Obvious.” Sherlock hadn’t deleted that information yet. He rolled over so that his back was to Greg. He doesn’t need a lecture on the Wall, of all things. Built during the last expansion of the Kingdom, the Wall completely surrounded the border. Though it varied, the Wall was wide enough to fit at least two patrolling guards within its inner walls. At guardhouse points it literally was a small (albeit narrow) town within the defensive structure itself. Commissioned by the current ruling family’s great-grandfather, the Wall had been completed in a mere 42 years with this guardhouse being the final building site (it was over a week’s hard ride from the capitol). The Wall had made them a Kingdom; before the Wall they had been overrun by the wildness and whatever foreign power had decided to invade them.

 The Wall was interesting from Sherlock’s point of view due to all of the small unexpected rooms necessitated by the narrow confines in which to set up private laboratories and the dichotomy between life within the walls (limited to guards and their families, all of whom were uniformly dull) and the world outside the wall, the town filled with crime and puzzles and quite frankly appallingly stupid people on one side and foreign wilderness on the other.

“I want to go outside, Greg.”

“Well you can’t. I’m not even on patrol today. It’s all paperwork, which was interrupted by an _arrow_ being shot into my bloody _wall_!” Sherlock’s shoulders drooped slightly as he curled a little further into himself, which Greg knew meant he was settling in for a good long sulk.

Greg was genuinely fond of the lunatic, oddly enough; they grew up in the Wall together. Greg’s father had been an inspector.  When Greg was ten his father had brought home a dirty, mouthy, curly haired child that he had found on the wrong side of the Wall. No one in town claimed him and he soon had free run of the Wall. Which may have been a mistake, because Sherlock (who insisted on that odd name even though no one knew if it was his real name or not) was immediately causing havoc with his ‘experiments’ and creepily insightful observations of the populace. The only way to rein him in at all, Greg knew from long experience, was to confine him to the Wall. Even Sherlock had difficulty sneaking out of a place where every opening was guarded and every guard knew (and wanted to punch) his face.

Sherlock lived in the library or Greg’s flat for the most part, never having claimed a permanent living space for himself and setting up temporary laboratories in storage areas as it suited him. Greg was sure he was the only person who had seen Sherlock actually sleep, albeit only for a few hours every couple of days.

There was a loud bang as Greg's outer door was forcefully opened. “Is he here?!” he heard Donovan shout. He heard her footsteps check the office first before heading towards his private apartments. Usually his lieutenants would knock before entering the living quarters part of his assigned space, but Sally was clearly in a strop. She banged through the inner door with hardly a pause and threw herself at Sherlock.

“WHAT HAVE YOU DONE, YOU FREAK?!” She screamed, reaching towards Sherlock’s neck with her (what Sherlock called ‘mannish’ which Greg privately agreed with but would never say out loud) hands. Sherlock tried to slap her away and ended up being knocked from the couch to the floor where he yanked Donovan’s ankles so that she toppled backwards into Lestrade, who had been rushing forward to help (he was unsure who he was helping, it depended on what Sherlock had actually done).

“Sally, what the Hell! Report!” Greg righted them both and turned Donovan to face him. Her face was red, she had clearly run from her current patrol in the far Walls of their section.

“Sir, I… There’s a hole. In the Wall.”

Sherlock snorted, still sprawled across the floor. “Of course there are holes in the Wall.” Sally jerked as if to attack him again and Greg took a firmer grip on her arms.

“You sick fuck! How did you do it? How did you build an unsanctioned door? You are the only person crazy enough to completely fuck up everything the Wall stands for!” Sally was almost crying, and Greg honed in on the important words. “An unsanctioned door? Sergeant Donovan, are you certain?” Even Sherlock was paying attention now. An unsanctioned door was an impossibility, every section of the Wall was patrolled daily, every entrance guarded. To find a door, an opening, in his section of the Wall? It was horrible and Greg’s stomach turned at the thought that it had happened under his guardianship.

“Yes, Sir.” Donovan said sadly.

“Right,” Greg said, “who is guarding it currently?”

“I pulled in Jackson and Thrace to guard the door and added three more to the patrol rotation.” Sally replied.

“Good. We will take a team out to determine the extent of the breach. During the next four days we will do intensive sweeps of ALL of the inner walls to make sure that there isn’t so much as an undocumented mouse hole. Tell Simon that all current leave is cancelled and to pull in half the guards from the village, we will determine schedules when we get back from the site.” Lestrade said, walking to his office. He scooped up the ‘borrowed’ crossbow and set it on his desk. “We need to leave immediately. As soon as you get back from telling Simon the roster changes, meet me in the main guard hall.”

“Sir!” Donovan saluted and left, looking relieved to have orders to follow.

Greg buckled on his sword belt and debated taking a small buckler. There’s no actual threat, he reminded himself, knowing that there was no greater threat to the safety of the Wall than an unsanctioned opening ; but he probably wouldn’t need a shield. Taking one last look around the office, Greg made sure that he had a notebook in his pocket and brushed past Sherlock who had been lurking near the doorway. Sherlock fell into step behind him and Greg turned to face him.

“You aren’t coming, Sherlock. You are still confined to the guardhouse.”

Sherlock looked him in disbelief, and snorted. “You will need me.”

“No, Sherlock.”

Greg felt Sherlock staring at him as he turned to leave, cataloguing his every move. It was always creepy to be observed that closely, and he jumped a little as Sherlock let out a small “Ah.”

“No, Sherlock.”

“You think I had something to do with this?” Sherlock asked. Greg hadn’t realized that he had been thinking that until Sherlock said it out loud, and turning to towards the other man he said, “Well did you?”

Sherlock actually looked hurt. Greg let out a breath and said, “Right. No talking or touching until I say so, clear?”

Sherlock opened his mouth, closed it again, then nodded, following silently behind the Detective Inspector. Greg would have been shocked by Sherlock’s easy compliance if he hadn’t had something much, much worse to worry about.

_____

It was an actual door. Greg had been expecting a rough hewn hole in the Wall, but it was an actual door. An unsanctioned door. Built into the Wall. He shook his head in disbelief. The only reason it had been found at all was that one of the guards had tripped and fallen through a false wall and followed the revealed corridor to the outer partition. 

“It’s been here since the Wall was built,” said Sherlock.

“I thought I told you not to talk,” said Greg.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and kneeled next to the door, “Built with the Wall and used at least twice a year, judging by the wear pattern on the floor and the oil on the lower hinge.”

“I found some plant matter!” Anderson announced self importantly, “It will take me a day or two to determine what-“

“It’s from the juniper covering the outer surface of the wall at the point of entry. And mint. I can smell it from here, you idiot. Brilliant, though, purposefully planted to hide any scent of the passage.” Sherlock chortled his glee at the idea and darted into the hidden hallway.

“Sherlock!” Greg yelled as Anderson pouted. He followed to find Sherlock with his arm reaching deep into the debris by the fallen false wall. “I knew it had to be here,” Sherlock said triumphantly, “you never really check who goes out, you’re only suspicious of those who come in.” He handed Greg a guard’s jacket. It was dated but recognizable, and Lestrade had a sinking feeling that he was going to be spending a large amount of time revisiting the uniform rules and exit search strategy.

Sherlock was practically vibrating with joy. Greg tried to keep him on track; “You said it was built at the same time as the Wall? Are there other unsanctioned doors in the Wall?” he asked.  

“Unlikely,” Sherlock replied, examining the brickwork near the fallen wall, “Your remember the worker who tried to put a small passage near Heathway Court into the Wall during the initial build– he was immediately turned in and executed by his fellow bricklayers. That’s why the policy of ‘ten-to-build’ was instituted, so that there was always someone watching to make sure the Wall was built as planned. I am,” Sherlock said, “actually impressed that this door exists. It was their last chance to build a hole in the Wall and they managed to do it under the nose of the entire build team.”

“Whose last chance?”

“Someone very rich. Very connected. Obviously.” And very, very interesting, Sherlock thought privately. This was better than Kingsday! Sherlock never got presents during that holiday anyway, except from Greg, and he always got boring things like new tunics or writing paper instead of laboratory equipment or getting included on cases. In Sherlock’s opinion this door was the best thing to happen in the history of ever and it would be even better if Greg would stop muttering to himself!

“I suppose I had better get started on the missive to the capitol. Christ, with a hole in the wall I’ll have to write to the palace, shite shite bollocks dammit –“

“Why? They’ll only send someone to muck it up and it will take them a week to get here anyway.”

Greg glared at Sherlock. “Because I HAVE to, there has NEVER been a breach in the wall and I’ll be DAMNED if I make this any more of a mess! You have a week to look at the scene on the condition that you do not remove anything without my personal express consent and that you write a concise, POLITE scientific account to include in my report. Sherlock. SHERLOCK!”

Sherlock had stopped listening. A whole week? He could easily solve the case in a week and send whatever government stooge showed up on his merry way.

Finally. Something Interesting. 


	2. Prince John Reads a Report

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As Sherlock grapples with the puzzle of the Door in the Wall his report reaches Prince John, who is not a very happy or content little princeling. Who else will show up at the Capitol?

Chapter Two: Prince John Reads a Report

Prince John was sick to death of the capitol, of being called ‘Your Royal Highness’, of having nothing of actual worth to occupy his time with. He was a soldier, dammit! He had worked hard to turn the second royal child’s obligatory military stint into an actual commission – and he had the scars to prove it. No one had realized the extent to which John had subverted the royal will until he had been shot; oh how they had scrambled to send him back to the capitol with the General’s assurances that he had had no idea that ‘His Royal Highness’ (how he HATED that title!) had been seeing actual field action in the Northern Wars. He returned to the Palace with a handful of commendations, a limp and the title of National Security Advisor to the King.

Not that John was unwilling to do his duty as Prince of the Realm, but his Royal Parents would still (God willing) be ruling for decades more and the actual heir would hopefully not manage to destroy herself during that time. John sat in on Parliamentary meetings and Policy meetings and Public Functions and slowly died inside even as he tried to make a difference in the lives of his people. He stubbornly refused to wear the royal robes, donning his officer’s uniform when he couldn’t get away with his comfortable jumpers. He roamed the halls late at night, cane tapping on the floor, fleeing from the echoes of his nightmares.

And now this. A Door in the Wall. John shuddered and wondered how long before it was common knowledge that the Wall had been breached. He looked over the guard report again. Detective Inspector Lestrade was concise and apologetic and very clear that there was a previously unknown door hidden in the south Wall. John was more interested in the report from someone referred to as their ‘Wall Consultant.” A sheet of paper with both sides covered in cramped, spiky handwriting that managed to convey the author’s disdain for the reader.

“The deliberate planting of juniper and mint at the exit point mean that, of course, the entire Wall needs to be examined for these plants and those of similar aromatic properties growing in conjunction near the Wall.” John read; never mind the amount of time and manpower needed to search the entire outer Wall, never mind how common both juniper and mint were in the Kingdom. John made a note of it, anyway; it was a valid point. As John continued to read he became more and more impressed by the combination of the consultant’s brilliance and complete lack of tact. Scathing reports of fellow officers were included along with a grudging acknowledgement that he didn’t actually know who built the door.

“Amazing.” John mumbled as he read how the consultant had conclusively determined that the door had been built at the same time as the Wall. John was immensely concerned that the door was still seemingly in use, and wondered who he should send south to deal with the situation.

John was drafting out a letter to be sent to all of the guardhouses regarding increased structural inspection and search policies when there was a knock at the door. He glanced out the window; dinner. John grabbed his cane and stood up with a wince, resigning himself to the one meal he forced himself to eat with his family. He spent enough time with them in his ‘official’ capacity that he felt that escaping to eat in peace was a well deserved indulgence.

He reached the family dining room doors at the same time as Her Royal Highness Princess Harry, whom he tried to trip with his cane after she stuck out her tongue at him. “How old are you again?” teased John, knowing that Harry hated being older than him.

“Your jumper is hideous. You look like a costumed hedgehog.” Harry answered, to which John replied, “And exactly how many bottles of wine are you planning on consuming this evening?”

Their bickering would have continued into the dining room except there was a stranger seated at the table with their parents. John bowed, hiding his uneasiness with long practice. Dinner was either only family (which was bearable, at least) or a highly elaborate state function (in which case John had plenty of warning and time enough to fabricate an ‘emergency’).

“John, Harry; this is Ambassador Mycroft from West Ang,” their father introduced them in his informal, straightforward way. John was surprised; they of course had trade agreements with countries outside the Wall, but rarely any visitors. The Kingdom’s foreign policy essentially consisted of ‘See this Wall? Don’t cross this Wall or we will shoot you’.

“Ang!” Harry exclaimed, sitting next to her mother, “How fascinating! Does it really never stop raining?” She smiled charmingly, her training as heir and natural people skills coming to the fore.

The man, Ambassador Mycroft, was immaculately dressed in formal dinner wear and had managed not to raise an eyebrow at the royal family’s casual ways, although he had automatically stood at John and Harry’s entrance. “A bit of an exaggeration, perhaps.”

“Are you sure?” Harry teased, “I see you brought an umbrella to dinner.” John hadn’t even noticed the innocuous black umbrella propped against their guest’s seat.

Mycroft’s face tightened momentarily. “A cultural eccentricity.” 

“We shall try our very best to ensure that dinner doesn’t get so out of hand as to necessitate the use of your ‘cultural eccentricity’; at least, not until the dessert course, I hear it’s mousse in which case it is every man for himself.” Harry giggled, reaching for her wine glass. “You must be very important in West Ang, to be an Ambassador!”

“Hardly,” Mycroft smirked, “I occupy a minor government position is all.”

John highly doubted that. The importance of trade between the Kingdom and West Ang combined with their mistrust of foreigners meant that any Ambassador sent to them was of high import indeed. Especially if Mycroft had come in response to rumors about the South Wall.

Conversation was formal but hardly stilted. After the first course John’s father leaned in to ask John, “How worried should I be about the South Wall?”

John glanced at Ambassador Mycroft, who appeared to be engrossed in quickly and fastidiously consuming his dinner, and answered his father, “Very. Any breach in the Wall is a cause for concern, but this? A hidden door?  It has the potential to undermine people’s belief in the Kingdom’s boundaries.”

His father nodded slowly as John briefly described the changes he was planning to institute throughout the guardhouses. “The door itself, though; I’ll have to send someone to the South Wall to-“

Harry interrupted him. “John! You are going to my reception on Thursday, aren’t you? It’s very important that you be there.” She reached across the table to waggle her finger in his face and John winced as he noticed the empty wine glass at her elbow. “There are only so many times I can convince my Ladies to show up to these functions that you keep ducking out of!”

“I’m not quite so fond of partying as you are, Harry. I’m more concerned with, oh I don’t know, National Defense and the future of the Kingdom?”

Harry’s eyes narrowed. “Are you insinuating something? I’m sick of your excuses!”

“I’m sick of your drinking!”

“I’m sick of forcing my friends to dance with my pathetic gimp of a brother and his stupid fucking jumpers!”

“HARRIET!” shouted both of their parents, their mother motioning towards the Ambassador.  Mycroft glanced up, said, “Don’t mind me,” and continued eating. John tightly gripped his can as he stood. “Well you don’t have to worry about that for the foreseeable future, Harry. I ride for the South Wall in the morning.” John turned to walk away but forced himself to stop and speak to his father. “I swear to end this violation of our borders and defend the Kingdom to the best of my abilities, your Majesty.”

“I know you will, son,” the King said, then sighed heavily; “I’ll have someone send the rest of your dinner to your rooms, you have a good deal of preparation to do if you are leaving in the morning.” John bowed to his father and Mycroft, kissed his mother on the cheek and ignored Harry’s pleading eyes on his way out of the room.

As he lurched his way back to his sanctuary John tried recall as much of the South Wall report as possible; he wouldn’t have to bring a large entourage, the Detective Inspector seemed capable, if out of his depth. Remembering the ‘consultant’, John snorted. He’d have to make sure to bring a building specialist with him, one that wouldn’t be torn apart by the local expert. Had Mike Stamford ever worked on that stretch of Wall? He would be John’s preference anyway. He stopped at his office to grab the actual report and travel materials, and to jot off some quick instructions for while he was gone. John decided to lock the office door behind him when he left – who knew how long he’d be gone? He was pocketing the key when he heard a faint clicking sound behind him.

“John.”

The low, sultry voice raised John’s hackles. As much as he hated to be your-highnessed and prince-John’d, he disliked familiarity from this woman. It felt too much like a concession. He turned to see her walking slowly towards him, her obscenely high heels tapping against the stone floors.

“Lady Adler.”

“Call me Irene.”

“No.”

She smiled, a flash of sharp teeth. “And you wonder why I find you interesting.”

“I’m not interesting. Nothing ever happens to me here.” John disliked Irene. Not because of her relationship with Harry, but because she had ended it by telling Harry that she was a lousy lay. That was when the drinking had escalated and Irene had set her sights on John.

“That’s not quite true, now is it? I hear you head to the South Wall to valiantly defend us from an unknown door?”

“That was fast.”

Irene smirked. “I know someone. Well, I know what she likes.”

“Stay away from Harry. And if you know all this already why did you seek me out?”

She leaned towards him, reaching out an immaculately manicured hand that suddenly reminded John of a lioness’s claws and caressed the side of John’s neck with her nails. John flinched away, stepping back. He stared directly into Irene’s glittering eyes and stated clearly, “Stay away from me. Stay away from Harry. Keep your machinations to yourself, as much as possible.”

“Safe travels, John. I’d hate to see you return any more damaged.”

John walked away without replying, wondering if anyone ever got the last word with Irene. Unbidden thoughts of the unknown South Wall consultant rose in his mind and he amused himself whilst packing his jumpers with the notion of Irene being outwitted by some provincial genius guardsman.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We've met Sherlock, we've met John... now they get to meet each other *swoon*! Hopefully this is mostly making sense. If not, thanks for riding on the crazy train with me.


	3. Call Me Captain.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finally. Prince John arrives at the Wall and meets a certain snarky detective. 
> 
> “Highness?!” Sherlock looked up John, seeming more annoyed than shocked.

Chapter Three: Call me Captain

Sherlock wasn’t bored, he was frustrated. It had been a week and despite the fact that he had devoted every waking hour to the puzzle, he was still no closer to figuring out who was using the door. He knew who had physically built it [Loreson, a subcontractor among many who had worked on the original Wall design], and he even had a solid lead on who had commissioned it [the timing suggested the Western principalities], but what he yearned to know was who was using the door NOW. There were clear signs that the door had been maintained and used no more than seven weeks ago. 

But by WHO? Sherlock made a sound of intense annoyance and batted away the spoonful of rice that Greg had been attempting to force feed him.

“Open wide for the birdy!” Greg sang at Sherlock, gesturing wildly with the spoon. 

Sherlock glared. “Fuck off.”

“You haven’t eaten in a week.”

“I had that piece of bread.”

“AFTER I threatened to ground you.”

“I’m BUSY, Greg, what do you WANT?”

Greg set the spoon back down on the table and said, “The delegation from the Capitol is arriving today. I can’t stop them from talking to you but I can threaten you with Anderson-tethering if you are rude to them.”

Sherlock looked up.

“As in I will tell Anderson to guard you, follow you, and think he is nominally in charge of you for the foreseeable future.”

“Cruel.”

“I’m not sure who exactly these people are and I can’t have you insulting the Queen’s nephew’s second cousin or something.” 

Sherlock scoffed. “The Queen’s nephew doesn’t have a second cousin. They are likely to send one of their Wall ‘experts’, if they aren’t complete idiots they’ll send Stamford. As I am a hopeful man I will pretend that we will see him in the party. Some kind of high ranking nobleman, yes yes, whom I swear to avoid, and then someone military who will probably want to shut down the garrison and shoot you in the face.”

Lestrade looked up from where he was shoveling the rest of the Sherlock’s rice into his mouth. Sherlock easily read his expression, “Oh he won’t SHOOT you. Moron. You’ll just be demoted and sent to the worst possible assignment imaginable.” Sherlock pretended to think for a minute, “Which is actually here. So you’re fine.” 

There was a knock on the door. Lestrade grabbed his hat. “Don’t be a wanker,” he said. “You have rice on your face,” Sherlock replied. 

..........

John was immeasurably grateful for the presence of Mike Stamford. The man was genial, if a bit repetitive, and very good at pretending that he needed to take a break right when the pain in John’s leg was becoming unbearable. John never appreciated quite how large the Kingdom was until he had to ride across it for a week. 

He tried not to limp away from the stables as he followed Stamford’s amiable chatter towards the Wall garrison. He barely registered the town, like dozens of others they had passed through on the way, its only distinguishing characteristic its proximity to the Wall. The Wall. John paused (not to rest his leg, which was FINE thank you very much) and glared up at the sheer cliff face of the Wall. 

“How in the Hell did anyone breach that?”

“They didn’t,” came a low, deep voice behind him. John turned and lied to himself that his loud inhalation was due to the sudden sharp pain in his leg as he shifted and not his immediate visceral reaction to the man in front of him. 

'Sharp', was the immediate word that came to mind. Sharp glances, sharp movements; sharp cheekbones, for goodness sake. 

A man in uniform huffed up with Mike Stamford wandering along behind him. He shouldered the tall man aside and saluted. “Detective Inspector Lestrade.” 

“Captain John Watson.” John watched Lestrade flinch and his eyes were suddenly wary. John sighed internally; he’d deliberately worn only his uniform, but he supposed it was unrealistic to expect someone not to recognize a member of the royal family, even out here on the far reaches of the Wall.

“Only two of you, then? I was expecting three.” John twitched as the voice spoke again.

“Ah,” the man said, stepping forward to stand uncomfortably close to John, “Should have expected that. Two out of three in one.”

“Excuse me?” John managed, stiffening his spine at the calculatingly insulting up and down look the man was giving him.

“Sherlock-,” Lestrade started. Sherlock twitched his hand dismissively back before saying to John, “I was expecting them to send a Wall expert, Mike Stamford for preference, which they did. But such an important and terrifying prospect as a HOLE in the WALL would naturally goad them to send two of the most useless bureaucratic stereotypes to stand around getting in the way. And here you are, a noble AND a military puppet, all at once. You did see action, though, how odd. Voluntarily. Even odder. You must not be terribly important, although judging by the way Lestrade is jabbing me un-surreptitiously with his fingers I should probably at least recognize you. Youngest sibling, obviously. You were shot in the shoulder, injured in the leg too, though that has long since healed. Why are you limping? Never mind, I don’t care. Lived in the capitol your whole life. You enjoy writing but not correspondence. Hmmm. Your brother is an alcoholic. I ca- “

Sherlock was suddenly tackled from behind and pinned to the ground. “Your highness,” began Lestrade from his perch on Sherlock’s shoulders. 

“Highness?!” Sherlock looked up John, seeming more annoyed than shocked. 

John gestured at Lestrade to let Sherlock up. “How did you know that?” No one was supposed to know the extent of John’s injuries. Or Harriet’s drinking.

“Your highness,” Lestrade started again, only to be cut off at a sharp gesture from John. 

“How?”

Sherlock actually shot a quick glance at Lestrade before pulling himself up to his full height. “Your wounds are obvious in your walk and the way you pull your arm when you are tired, as you are now after riding for a week. However, you spread your weight evenly across both legs when you are startled or not paying attention which indicates that your limp is mostly psychosomatic. You are obviously a high-ranking noble – Prince, why the hell didn’t I…? Never mind – which means that any military service that saw action was voluntary. Younger child, since you were allowed to go into the military at all. Everything you are wearing was made in the Capitol, and you are, ahem, uncomfortable enough from the ride to make it obvious that you very rarely leave, not with your injuries and obligations.”

“And my… brother?”

Sherlock stepped closer, eyes sparkling with sudden interest. “Ah, now that’s more interesting. You have a letter sticking out of the side pocket of your courier bag, upside down, signed ‘Harry’. Obviously snuck into your bag at the last minute, as you are not the sort of man to bring personal correspondence on a mission from the crown. Someone who has access to your personal belongings, something that you would keep despite you being angry. The crease marks across the page – how many times did you throw it away? Don’t answer. The handwriting itself, though…. the inability to write in a straight line, the loops in the ‘b’s and ‘p’s and the internal inconsistencies in letter formation despite the overall coherence of the paragraph itself; someone who is used to writing while incapacitated.” 

John stared at him. Sherlock stared back, waiting. “That. Was brilliant.” 

“Really?” Sherlock suddenly beamed. John laughed as he brushed dirt off of Sherlock’s jacket. “Yes.” 

“That’s not what they usually say,” Sherlock admitted. 

“What do they usually say?” John teased.

“Piss off.” 

They both laughed. Sherlock stilled and John realized that he was still touching the other man’s coat. “Interesting,” Sherlock said. 

“Yeah. Interestin.” They both turned at the interruption to see Mike Stamford beaming at them and Lestrade looking confused and not a little angry. “Can we escort you to the Wall, your Highness?” Lestrade continued. 

“Call me Captain.” Sherlock’s eyebrow twitched so John leaned in and said, “I suppose you can call me John,” before striding past him, the texture of Sherlock’s coat still imprinted in his hand. 

..........

“Harriet! SISTER! Dammit, there’s always something.” John overheard Sherlock bitching at Lestrade as he and Stamford inspected the damaged area of the Wall. Lestrade replied, “I don’t understand how you can be so smart but not even know the names of the royal family.” 

“Irrelevant. I thought.” 

“Know better now, don’t you?” 

“Apparently.”

John forced himself to turn his attention back to his conversation with Stamford. During the entire way here Sherlock had walked disconcertingly close and John was finding it difficult to tear his focus away. “What were you saying?” 

“Sherlock was right. The work was clearly done by Loreson, although the way the alcove was designed is very Western, I suspect West Ang, but it could have been any of the principalities at the time.”

John thought of the West Ang Ambassador, Mycroft; curious timing, indeed. 

“I’m more concerned about its current use.”

“Yes,” Sherlock said suddenly, stepping into the conversation, “That IS more interesting. It looks like after its initial build it was only used a few times before being abandoned, likely due to the civil war in the Western Principalities at the time. It started to be used regularly again about 12 years ago; some ambitious sod must have rediscovered it and decided to take advantage of the opportunity.” 

“Amazing.” John hadn’t realized he’d said it out loud until everyone turned to look at him. He flushed. “Ahem. How could you possibly know it was 12 years ago?”

Sherlock grinned at John knowingly, making him blush harder. “The pattern of wear is fairly distinctive, as is the age of the uniform left and the growth pattern of the juniper planted outside. I could be off by a year. Perhaps.” 

John smiled back, “Perhaps not, smartarse.” 

Sherlock actually chuckled at that. “What we need right now is to find out who is using the door,” John said, “We need to catch them coming through the Wall without alerting them to the fact that we know the door is there. We've been keeping it quiet, but word will get out eventually that the Wall has been breached, so we need to lure them somehow to do it quickly. How?”

Sherlock looked at him seriously. “We throw a ball.”


	4. The Prince is Having a Ball

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They plan a ball. Some unexpected guests show up. And THIS happens:
> 
> 'John’s brain was racing, simultaneously trying to figure out what to say and remember how to breathe at the same time. Suddenly, Sherlock’s expression cleared and he quickly pressed his lips to John’s. 
> 
> “You’re an idiot,” Sherlock said, leaning forward until their foreheads touched. He sounded amused.
> 
> “YOU’RE an idiot,” was all John managed to say, inanely, before he was gripping Sherlock’s shoulders and they were kissing again.'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry I haven't been updating- I kind of gave up on this, to be honest. And then Izzii asked about an update, so this is really for Izzii.

Chapter Four: The Prince Is Having A Ball! 

 

Lestrade hunted Sherlock down in his makeshift laboratory under the stairs, wanting to catch him alone. The Prince and he had been nearly inseparable since they had met two weeks ago and Greg needed to talk to him about the plans for tomorrow. Among other things.

Lestrade threw open the door dramatically. “Aha!” he said accusingly. Sherlock didn't even look up from his microscope. “Aha,” Lestrade said again, feeling a little stupid but determined to catch his attention. 

Lestrade walked over to the table and slowly pulled the microscope away. “Stop that!” Sherlock said when he noticed he had leaned forward to follow the eyepiece. “Not yours.” replied Lestrade, setting it on the floor, “Speaking of ‘not yours’, what the HELL is going on?”

Sherlock’s face took on a cagey look; “I swear, Lestrade, that I was going to return the crossbow after tomorrow.”

“YOU HAVE MY CROSSBOW?!” 

“I have A crossbow?” 

“No, never mind. Give it back. What the hell is going on with you and the Prince?”

Sherlock snorted, “You know he actually hates being called that.”

“Oh. Um, answer the question?”

Sherlock just looked at him. Lestrade wanted to ask him what the hell was going on with him and the Prince and the way they followed each other about, not only with their eyes but literally, just always side by side, chatting and arguing and laughing. Lestrade wasn't jealous, who could be jealous of a PRINCE, but he was very confused. He had never seen Sherlock like this. If he didn't know better, he would say that Sherlock was….

“Sherlock, are you?”

“Articulate as always.”

“Shut it. Are you and the Prince… mates?” Lestrade had really wanted to say ‘dating?’ but wasn’t sure how far to push. 

Sherlock considered the question. John was… new. Not boring. He actually appreciated the work. Just having him around made Sherlock…better, somehow. Sherlock had gotten more done in the two weeks since John had been here than he had in the month before, and not just because no one said no to a Prince. Like when Sherlock had proposed throwing a ball to catch the culprit. 

....................

“Throw a ball? Why on earth would we throw a BALL, of all stupid things?” asked Lestrade, suddenly getting over his reticence about talking in front of royalty. 

Sherlock didn't take his eyes away from John. “There is evidence that the person comes through the Wall only during times of great activity; celebrations, new laws, news from the Capitol, and so on. If he or she hears that there is royalty here? Not only that, a large celebration where they can mingle and whisper and overhear things? They won’t be able to resist. It is just the lure we need.” 

“Would the Prince be in danger?” asked Lestrade, at the same time that John said, “I had hoped not to make a fuss.” 

Sherlock gave John a look. John nodded, “I suppose that was a tad naïve. How soon?”

“Two weeks.”

“Two weeks?! That gives us no time to prepare, much less plan a ball! How do you even plan a ball??? And an operation like this? WITH security detail for ROYALTY?! No. A month. Two.”

“Two weeks,” Sherlock said again. “That gives just enough time for word to get out but not enough time for them to get suspicious or plan anything elaborate.”

“Two weeks,” John agreed. Sherlock smiled at the look on Lestrade’s face. 

....................

Sherlock smiled at the look on Lestrade’s face. He was well aware of the rumors going around and found himself… not indifferent. He had never been attracted to the conventional, and the growing bond between himself and John was alluring on many levels. Sherlock loved getting too close to John when they argued, just to see the way he drew himself to his full height and tucked his chin while simultaneously (and unconsciously) leaning closer to Sherlock. The way John wouldn't allow Sherlock to walk over him, or the way he never belittled Sherlock, even when he was being particularly Sherlockian. Sherlock couldn't change the patterns of a lifetime just for one new point of data, but even during the arguments his abrasive personality inevitably caused, Sherlock found himself holding back, cataloging John’s reactions, stopping himself before he said something that would truly drive the other man away. 

“I would think you would have more important things to worry about that me and my ‘mate’,” Sherlock said, “Or have you forgotten the little matter of the threat to our country’s national security? Not to mention all of the nobles that have flocked to the town for the ball tomorrow. What are you even doing here? I thought we had finalized everything during that horridly dull meeting yesterday.”

“Yes, and you were awfully quiet during it.” 

“Boring.” Sherlock had actually been occupied tapping Morse code onto John’s leg with his foot about how stupid all of the suggestions were, and counted it a success whenever John had to cover a smile with a cough. He and John had worked it all out ages ago, of course; the meeting was essentially just a way to present their plan without annoying everyone. Another reason John was so useful. 

“You are not allowed near the Wall. You got that, didn't you? Not one foot. You can go to the ball but may not under any circumstances approach the ambush area.”

Sherlock hummed. He didn't actually agree with this part, but John was insistent that he not be there either which meant he was going to have to get creative. Like anyone could honestly expect him to miss this! 

Sherlock found himself suddenly backed against the wall, an intense Lestrade in his face. “I am serious, Sherlock. If you ruin this with your grandstanding I swear I’ll –“

“You’ll what?” said Prince John from the doorway. 

“I – your Highness.” 

“Hullo John!” Sherlock said cheerfully. He noticed John had his ‘Captain’s face’ on and a scowl aimed directly at Detective Inspector Lestrade. 

“If I may interrupt,” John said coldly, “I would like to borrow Sherlock.” 

“Of course,” said Lestrade, wilting slightly. “Just… be careful, Sherlock.” 

“Am I ever not?” Sherlock asked mockingly as John dragged him from the room. Sherlock found himself near a window overlooking the stable, sternum to face with an irate ex-army captain. 

“What was he saying to you?” Sherlock merely looked down at John, who rolled his eyes after a moment. “Fine. I just thought you’d like to be here when the delegation from the Capitol arrived.” 

Sherlock immediately leaned out the window, partly to have a better view and partially because he knew that John would immediately grab hold of his waist so that he wouldn't tumble out. “Any idea who’s coming?”

John leaned against the window frame next to Sherlock, still holding on to his waist. “Harry’s missive just said that she had convinced a few of her ladies and their beaus to come out to ‘the country’, so probably just some insipid Capitol nobles wandering around simpering about how ‘quaint’ everything is. Hopefully just enough to make this ball seem real without forcing me to interact with a gaggle of annoying cretins all evening.”

“Cretins?”

“Hush. Your vocabulary is rubbing off on me.” Sherlock smiled as he leaned in to John. They stood side by side, both of them ignoring the view to focus on the man beside them. 

John had never met anyone like Sherlock. For the first time since coming back from the Northern border John felt like life was exciting. Every day had purpose, even if it was only to see Sherlock solve some ridiculously complex puzzle and to exclaim over him. Sherlock didn't treat him like a Prince; actually, John was lucky when Sherlock didn't treat him like an idiot. John didn't want to push anything but he was finding it more and more difficult to keep his hands to himself. That damn hair. John leaned closer to Sherlock, who was gleefully dismantling the first carriage to arrive with acidic words and pointed gestures, and let himself feel the warmth of Sherlock’s thigh against his.

“You haven’t been paying attention to what I was saying for the last 2.3 minutes.” Sherlock said, turning his body so that it was no longer draped out the window. He looked at John’s face, narrowing their already close proximity, and John’s breath stuttered. John’s brain was racing, simultaneously trying to figure out what to say and remember how to breathe at the same time. Suddenly, Sherlock’s expression cleared and he quickly pressed his lips to John’s. 

“You’re an idiot,” Sherlock said, leaning forward until their foreheads touched. He sounded amused.

“YOU’RE an idiot,” was all John managed to say, inanely, before he was gripping Sherlock’s shoulders and they were kissing again. 

John felt like all of the breath had been sucked from his body. His focus narrowed down to the feel of Sherlock’s lips against his, the brush of his cheek and the grip of his hands. Sherlock nipped at John’s lower lip, changing the angle of his head to sink deeper into the kiss. Sherlock inhaled sharply as John wedged his leg between Sherlock’s to bring their bodies even more closely together, and whined as John pulled away slightly. John ran his hands through Sherlock’s hair and leaned into the kiss, bringing his tongue into play to explore Sherlock’s mouth. 

And then he heard it. THAT voice.

“Fucking hell!” he said, pulling himself away, breathing heavily.

Sherlock looked at him questioningly, a shadow of hurt coloring his eyes. His hair was mussed, his face flushed and his shirt creased slightly. It was the only time John had ever seen him look less than perfectly put together, and John felt a sudden rush of affection.

“Not you, you beautiful idiot,” John said, framing Sherlock’s face with his hands and pulling him down for another, sweeter, less rushed kiss, that quickly turned into a desperate tangling of limbs. 

Sherlock tried to speak. “Why,” kiss, “is idiot”, kiss kiss, “the word of the day? It is inaccurate when applied to me in any way. Also,” kiss. 

They only tore themselves apart when they heard Lestrade shouting for them somewhere in the corridor. “It will take him at least 7 minutes to find us,” Sherlock said, trying to smooth his hair back down. 

John leaned on the windowsill, straightening his shirt and thinking of the voice from the courtyard. “What on earth is Irene Adler doing here?”

Sherlock glanced out the window for a moment. “Well, she’s not here of her own free will, that’s obvious.”

“Obvious.” John chuckled, valiantly resisting the urge to tackle Sherlock to the ground and snog him senseless.   
Sherlock gave him a knowing look and smiled. “Speaking of obvious.” He stretched his arms over his head just to watch John’s face as his focus shifted to Sherlock’s chest. “Undoubtedly whoever else is in that carriage holds something of interest over your Irene’s head.”

John shuddered. “Definitely not MY Irene,” he said, wrapping his arms around Sherlock and turning them towards the window. 

Sherlock contentedly snuggled against John as they watched Mycroft Holmes step out of the carriage. “Huh,” said John, confused. He looked at Sherlock, who was studying the West Ang Ambassador intently. 

“’Huh’ indeed,” Sherlock muttered.

....................

Sherlock wanted to meet the guests immediately so they gathered up a distraught Lestrade and headed toward the front hall. John filled them in on the Ambassador as Sherlock made snide remarks about Greg’s breakfast and Irene’s presence. 

“She’s certainly a spy –“ 

“A spy?” John exclaimed. 

“A spy?!” Lestrade exclaimed. 

“Yes, of course. But he’s something much, much worse.”

“And what’s that?” John asked, still upset about the idea of a spy being that close to his sister. 

Sherlock smirked as they reached the receiving hall. “A politician.”

“I’m technically a politician,” John pouted. 

“You’re a soldier, “Sherlock said, reaching out to touch the side of John’s hand. 

“Ahem,” Greg said uncomfortably, shuffling his feet as he turned towards their guests. A spy and a politician, Greg thought to himself; really, the South Wall should not be this interesting. At first glance the two were politely chatting quietly to each other, but even he could see the tension between the seated figures. The man stood at their entrance, and Greg very carefully did not think about how suddenly shivery he felt when the man looked at him. 

“Your highness,” Irene said smoothly but somehow subdued, not moving from her seat on the chaise. 

“Irene,” said John, shortly. 

“Prince John, how lovely to see you,” Mycroft uttered, oozing forward so that he stood between Irene and the group. 

“Yes, so anxious to see me that you came all the way to the South Wall. Quite a trip.” John said, emphasizing the final implosive sound. 

“I leapt at the chance to see more of your charming country.”

“I was not aware that you and Miss Adler were acquainted.”

Irene chimed in, “Well you know how friendly I am, John.”

“Miss Adler,” Mycroft said coldly, causing Irene to lean back nervously in her seat, “was kind enough to offer herself as a guide.”

“How unlike you,” said John. 

Irene said nothing. 

“I thought you said he was a politician, John.” Sherlock spoke up, walking forward so that he was directly behind John.

“And who is this?” Irene asked interestedly, a sudden spark animating her features, “Have you been holding out on us, John dear?”

Sherlock continued as if he hadn't been interrupted, “He’s clearly royalty, of some sort. Although he didn't lie about the West Ang part. What’s a Prince of West Ang doing playing at being an Ambassador?”

John turned his head to face Sherlock. “Really? You can tell that HE’S a prince?”

“I’ve been researching, now that I have samples nearer to hand, as it were.”

“As it were.”

“AHEM,” said Greg, as if he could distract the rest of the room away from how closely John and Sherlock were standing and how they were staring only at each other.

John faced forward towards his guests. “A prince? That IS interesting.”

Mycroft shrugged, his displeasure at being caught out visible only in the stiffness of his movements. “There are many Princes in West Ang, a veritable horde, despite the low percentage of us that manage to make it to adulthood. Being an ambassador is certainly more notable than any rank I might hold.”

“The rank of Prince,” John reiterated. 

“As it stands, yes.” Mycroft admitted, stepping forward to hold his hand out to Sherlock. “And who might this be? Very rude, not being introduced.”

John blocked Sherlock from stepping forward. “He is none of your business. I don’t have to tell you how inconvenient it is having you here at this time. I don’t know what you are playing at, Your Highness Ambassador, but I will tell you – both of you - to stay out of the way and not to meddle. I will not hesitate to try you both for treason and throw you in the darkest cell this part of the Wall has to offer. Greg!”

Greg jumped, having been lost in his thoughts of trying to figure out if the wine cellar counted as a ‘cell’ per se, since it was the deepest, darkest room he could think of. “Yeah? I mean, Yes, your highness?”

“Have someone show them to their rooms. You two: try not to get into any trouble.” With that John gave a shallow bow and stalked out of the room, grabbing Sherlock’s wrist on the way by. As he and Sherlock made their quick way out of the receiving hall John heard Greg’s hesitant voice behind them say, “Um, that’s a nice umbrella?” 

....................

The second that John left his side to go and greet the other guests Irene cornered Sherlock, as he knew she would. 

“Aren't you lovely,” Irene said predatorily, stalking towards him in the confined space of the laboratory, running her fingers over a glass beaker. 

“I would warn you not to touch that but I don’t actually care if something bad happens to you.”

“And as heartless as your reputation suggests.”

“Reputation?”

“Heartless. Soulless. A witch who can read minds. A man who cares for no one. Brilliant.” Irene tapped the side of a beaker, “They are all wondering what you are doing with their Prince, what kind of spell you cast to corrupt such a regal spirit.”

Sherlock finally stopped what he was working on to give her his full attention. “And what else do ‘they’ say? And by ‘they’ I mean Donovan, obviously.”

“Mmmm, that brain. Did you know brainy is the new sexy?”

Sherlock gave her a scathing look. 

“The poor orphan, found wandering outside the Wall. Where did you come from, I wonder?”

“Why would you want to know?”

“Can’t you remember? Surely you remember something; a voice, a face, a language.” Irene slinked into his personal space, laying a hand on his arm, “Haven’t you ever wondered where you are from? Surely a man as clever as you would have no trouble tracing how he came to be outside of the Wall?”

Sherlock stared down at her intense expression and said in a very quiet and clear way, “These aren't your words, these aren't your questions. Where is your master, puppet?”

Irene smiled flirtatiously at Sherlock, tracing her hand up his arm.

“No.” He said flatly, knocking her hand away. “Dull. Boring. Where is he?” Stepping back from her Sherlock spoke more loudly, “You Highness Ambassador?”

Sherlock could hear the umbrella tapping against the floor as Mycroft walked around the corner of the hallway to stand in the doorway. 

“Thank you, Miss Adler, that will be all.”

As Irene scurried past Mycroft, Sherlock said, “You should have known I wouldn't be so easily seduced as some moronic guard.”

“Hmm. Sergeant Donovan does like those shiny city girls.”

“Why have you set your spy on me? I assure you that as fascinating as I am, there is no need to dig into my rather dull personal history.”

Mycroft pursed his lips as he sat gingerly on a discolored chair. “I think your personal history is anything but dull, Sherlock. It’s an interesting name: Sherlock.”

“Is it?”

“Hm. I had a brother named Sherlock. It’s an unusual name, even by West Ang standards, but my mother was insistent. Having one male child in line for the throne is dangerous; having two is unforgivable. In my country the map of succession is paved with assassinations and power plays – the percentage of royals who survive to adulthood is surprisingly low, even though there are a remarkable number of Princes about. By the time he was two my brother had survived 12 attempts on his life, the last only barely, and only because of his remarkable intelligence even as a child.” Mycroft paused, shifting in his seat. “We sent him to live with a relative close to the border, your border, as it happens. As secretive as we were being, it wasn't a surprise that it took so long for word to reach us that he never made it. His guards were found dead, not 15 miles from your South Wall. It destroyed my mother. She held out hope for a while that we would receive a ransom note of some sort, but I have a much more realistic view of human nature. Imagine my surprise when, decades later, a report crossed my desk from a neighboring country that contained rather snarky commentary from one Sherlock-of-the-South-Wall, with his mysterious past and freakish intelligence.” 

Sherlock merely stared at Mycroft from across the room. 

“And that is why I think it is interesting that you would remember your name, but nothing else.” Mycroft said, standing. “I believe it is time for dinner, so I must take my leave of you. I hope to see you again, Sherlock.”

Sherlock stood frozen behind his chemistry set as Mycroft left the room. A few minutes ticked by as Sherlock brooded, deep in thought, before wrinkling his forehead and saying, “Bullshit.”

....................

Sherlock and John did not get to spend a lot of time together before the ball. When they weren't meeting with the guards to hammer out final plans they were dodging Mycroft (Sherlock) and Irene (John). Needless to say John was feeling quite grumpy by the time the ball rolled around, feeling that a couple of stolen kisses in corners was not near enough recompense for putting up with a dozen ponces from the capitol AND Irene AND a deadly threat against his beloved country. That deserves a serious snogging session, at the very least. So it’s understandable that the second he sees Sherlock emerge from the back room of Greg’s quarters, dressed to the nines for the ball, that he attacks.

Sherlock found himself knocked back into the couch with a lapful of squirming Prince. John’s mouth latched onto Sherlock’s. 

“Ngh,” was Sherlock’s attempt at John’s name. 

“Hrgle,” was Lestrade trying to simultaneously clear his throat and scrub his brain free of the images he had just unwittingly imprinted onto his brain as he entered the room. HIS room, by the way.

“Grrrr,” John growled angrily, foiled again in his attempt to get some. He leaned back on Sherlock’s lap to look into his face. “I know you know the plan, but promise me you’ll be careful. Stay in the ballroom, look for suspicious behavior, report it to the guard, but for God’s sake don’t go near the Wall.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. John flipped himself off Sherlock’s lap and put him in a headlock. “Promise!” he said, “Promise you won’t be a stupid git and go near the Wall!” Sherlock promised that he wouldn't, in between kissing and wrestling and groping and a very uncomfortable Detective Inspector. John left the room and headed for the ball becomingly flushed. 

“Yeah, he doesn't know you very well yet, does he?” Greg said. 

Sherlock shrugged, already planning his route along the outside corridors to the ambush site. 

“I do, though. And I hate to do this Sherlock, I really do, but this is a matter of national security and I can’t have you fucking it up by not listening to orders.” As Greg spoke he gestured out the door and in walked Anderson and Donovan. They did not look any more pleased to see Sherlock than Sherlock was to see them. 

Greg, the bastard, ran out of the room shouting, “The side sitting room! And be gentle!”

They weren’t.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll try and get the last chapter up next week - but you all know how consistent I am about that! If you're still here at the end of the ride, I salute you.


	5. The Man Who Came Through the Wall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Last one, last one! Does Sherlock escape? What exactly is Irene doing with Mycroft? Do they make it to the Ball? Does Greg have an aneurysm? Find out in the last, thrilling installment of this strange little fanfiction:
> 
> 'Mycroft’s focus shifting from Sherlock’s face to over his shoulder was the only warning he got, and in that split-second he found himself on the ground staring up at a rather attractive woman in a ballgown. “Sir?” she asked. 
> 
> “Gently, Anthea dear.”'

Chapter Five: The Man Who Came Through the Wall

 

Sherlock finished ripping the last piece of upholstery off of the broken chair leg. That was it, then. He had destroyed everything in this room. The next step would have been fire, if he hadn't been trapped in here to burn along with it. Although they’d have to let him out, Sherlock reasoned, if the room was on fire. But they’d probably be too stupid to believe him, and Sherlock didn't want his life to depend at any point on those idiots Anderson and Donovan. 

Sherlock was a bit bruised from their rough handling, and from his physical destruction of every breakable item in Lestrade’s side sitting room. He had not wanted to miss the ball, the ambush, John in all of his complimentary glory, and he treated the two guards accordingly. A knee to Anderson’s groin and shouted insults about Irene’s sexual history was not enough to free him. Nor was his attempt to pick the door lock, as they had physically barricaded the door from the outside. 

He did not want to be here. John needs him! Sherlock banged his fist against the door angrily, and was surprised when he heard, not an angry whinging complaint, but an echoing thump in return.

Sherlock stepped warily back from the door as he heard someone dismantle the barricade. He readied himself for defense and was mildly disappointed when Mycroft opened the door. He considered attacking anyway. 

Mycroft raised an eyebrow, taking in the room and Sherlock’s defensive stance, saying, “I wouldn't recommend it.”

Sherlock swanned past the Ambassador and headed down the hallway, gently kicking the unconscious bodies of Anderson and Donovan as he went. Behind him he heard a delicate cough as Mycroft commented, “Wrong way.”

Sherlock stopped. “Are you suggesting that I don’t know my way around the Wall? Where I live?” 

“Not at all,” said Mycroft, “I am merely implying that the rather obvious ambush at the door you all found in the Wall is not where you want to go at this particular moment.” 

Sherlock quickly changed directions.

“Oh, how adorable, you all thought you were being subtle? Someone who commands enough resources to manage years of surreptitious border crossings surely noticed all the hubbub surrounding a found door. You might want to go left here.”

Rather than follow Mycroft’s directions, Sherlock spun about and slammed him against the nearest wall. “Normally I’d be all for the snarky banter, but if the plan is compromised that means that time is of the essence and that I need to be where I am going quite quickly. If something happens to John because of your grandstanding –“

Mycroft’s focus shifting from Sherlock’s face to over his shoulder was the only warning he got, and in that split-second he found himself on the ground staring up at a rather attractive woman in a ballgown. “Sir?” she asked. 

“Gently, Anthea dear.”

“Sir.”

“Status?"

“The Woman is at the contact point, it appears that the rabbit made his way through.”

“Then we should be on our way.” He glanced down at Sherlock. “Coming, Sherlock?”

Sherlock flipped himself off the ground, following behind the pair from West Ang sullenly. 

....................

John smiled fakely at yet another Capitol noble, pretending to listen to how ‘quaint and charming’ they found this part of the country. At least they’d moved on from complaining about the journey or telling him what his sister had been up to. John hadn't seen Sherlock yet. At first John thought it was just because he had been mobbed by court and local nobility alike, dancing and flattering and working the room. He didn't expect Sherlock to be in the midst of that – actually, with Sherlock’s personality, he HOPED Sherlock didn't end up in the midst of that – but John hadn't even seen him on the periphery of the ballroom, where he was supposed to be. 

John glanced at the guard placed at the north door of the ballroom. The guard nodded slightly; the plan was still in play, everything was in place. Except for Sherlock. John scanned the ballroom again. Irene Adler and Ambassador Mycroft were missing as well. 

Something was wrong. He had to find Sherlock. 

....................

“I thought you had her under control!” Sherlock hissed furiously at Mycroft as he heard the unmistakable voice of Irene Adler accompanied by the furtive whispers of an unidentified man coming down the hallway. Mycroft smiled as Anthea’s hands whipped over Sherlock’s mouth and said, “I do.” He nodded at Anthea who then signaled down the hallway. Seconds later Sherlock heard a muffled shout and a scuffle, followed by the ringing of steel. “Anthea?” Mycroft seemed concerned.

“He wasn't supposed to have a weapon. Permission, sir?”

“Granted.”

As Anthea ducked around the corner Sherlock quickly followed her, dodging Mycroft’s umbrella. At the end of the hallway was a very well dressed man, clearly military, surrounded by three dead guards and a crouching Irene Adler. Anthea flew down the corridor, producing daggers miraculously from her ballgown, and battle commenced. Unfortunately for Anthea the man outweighed and outreached her, by a good deal. Fortunately for Anthea, she knew it, and employed a chasing defense of fluid dodging and running, that would have been quite successful had Irene not deliberately tripped her. 

As the stranger turned to finish Anthea off and Sherlock readied himself to dive into the fray regardless of his chances (98.4 % dead, if you were curious), Sherlock heard a small ‘pfft’ from over his shoulder. The stranger flinched as the glass lantern shade next to his head exploded, and he immediately crouched. Sherlock looked over where Mycroft had balanced his umbrella on his shoulder and was sighting down the hallway. 

“Projectile weaponry? Interesting.”

“Merely a cultural eccentricity,” Mycroft muttered, firing the umbrella again. 

The stranger dodged and bolted down the hallway towards them. Sherlock had never been so glad to hear a “God damn it, Sherlock!” in his life, as John and Greg leapt past them to engage the foe head on. It was tricky going for a bit, even two against one, since neither Greg nor John was a super-sneaky-ninja-assassin-of-doom like their opponent, but Anthea managed to get a lucky jab in with her daggers. Her soporific-coated daggers, which shortly sent their adversary to sleep. 

“What sedative was that?” Sherlock asked Mycroft. John heard Sherlock’s voice and ran down the hallway with murder in his eyes, sheathing his sword and grabbing the back of Sherlock’s neck to wrench his head down into a bruising kiss. 

“You. You. Are in so. Much. Trouble.” 

Sherlock made an innocent sound and pointed to Mycroft, “Not it!”

Mycroft and his umbrella tried to look innocuous. 

“Right.” said John, “You are a right git.” The Prince and the git proceeded to snog the stuffing out of one another as Mycroft edged past them towards Anthea. 

“He wasn’t supposed to have a weapon,” Mycroft stated. 

Irene widened her eyes theatrically, “I have NO idea how that could have happened.”

“Sir?” Anthea asked. Mycroft smiled, “Please do.”

Anthea seemed disappointed that Irene didn’t fight back as she cuffed the other woman and dragged her down the hallway. Detective Inspector Lestrade had already corralled a few confused-looking guards to drag the stranger to lock-up. 

“You!” John yelled down the hallway, “Ambassador! Explanations are in order, I think.” John was breathing heavily from the fight and for other reasons. Mycroft, surprised that the Prince had managed to tear himself away from Sherlock at all, said, “Of course, your highness. At your convenience.”

“My convenience is now. Let’s get this sorted.” John led them to the breakfast room in the east wing. Mycroft noted that he didn't let go of Sherlock’s hand, even when they sat down. 

Sherlock spoke before John had a chance to demand an explanation. “You knew that the ambush site wouldn't work, that the man would come through at a different point. You placed Adler in his way. West Ang Military man?”

“Ex-military, if you please. Sebastian Moran, a nasty little thorn in my side that I am pleased to be able to remove,” Mycroft replied. 

“Why couldn't you tell us? We could have worked together!” John burst out, “Instead of being all secretive and horrible, and putting an entire country at risk!”

“Two reasons,” said Sherlock, “One: your people are good soldiers and bad spies. The entire world knew about the door at almost the exact same moment you did. And two,” he directed the last part to Mycroft, “It was West Ang’s mess to clean up, wasn't it?”

“As you say, it was our concern. We knew that Moran had contacts inside your court, but it wasn't until they started making blatant plans once the door was discovered that I could be certain that Miss Adler was our linking point. A few well-placed threats later and we knew that they planned to break through with Adler’s assistance and we had a chance to catch Moran and end this particular security leak.”

“We. How many people did you sneak into my country?” John huffed, but Sherlock honed in on what Mycroft wasn't saying. “Moran is a foot-soldier, not a leader. Which of the many Princes of West Ang is invested in this venture that you are so desperate to stop?”

Mycroft stood. “That information is above my authority to divulge. Be content in knowing that the threat is stopped at your door, and will be dealt with by West Ang.”

“I think you owe me this much. A warning, at least, that you didn't give us today,” John said tightly, gripping Sherlock’s hand. 

Mycroft paused and nodded slowly, sadly. “Moriarty. If you are very lucky you will never hear mention of that name again.” With that, Mycroft strode out of the room. 

Sherlock turned to John, a slight smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “You are still in trouble, you lunatic,” said John, smiling back reluctantly. 

“I was brilliant,” said Sherlock arrogantly. 

“You were locked in a cupboard, if I understand correctly,” countered John. 

“It was a sitting room. And don’t you have a ball to get back to?”

“I suppose. Even fake balls have real nobles that will notice my absence and start gossiping. Blast.” John stood, stretching, and Sherlock placed a hand on his back, humming noncommittally. John turned suddenly and wrapped his hands around Sherlock’s hips, darting up to steal a kiss. “May I have this dance, good sir?”

Sherlock looked down at John bemusedly. “I haven’t ever danced.”

“You’re pretty smart, I think you can figure it out,” John smirked, backing towards the door and dragging Sherlock with him. 

....................

Greg watched the two men dance with a combination of fury and glee. He still wasn't sure what the hell had happened, but he had a very trussed up bad man locked up waiting to be transported to the capitol (and Greg couldn't be more happy about the fact that he didn't have to deal with THAT mess, thank you very much) and what appeared to be an in-progress public indecency infraction. Could he even charge a Prince with public indecency? Greg wondered. Maybe if he just didn't look at them he wouldn't have to worry about it. 

Greg headed over to the buffet, circling it slowly, picking off the weak and feeble tarts and crackers on the edge before diving in to the good stuff. He had a mouth full of what seemed to be most of a turkey when the gentleman next to him cleared his throat. Greg turned to see the Ambassador of West Ang holding out a handkerchief and looking amused. 

“Thank you for your assistance today,” the dratted man said, eating a grape and staring at Greg. 

Greg somehow managed to clear his mouth enough to mumble, “What assistance? You all had it well in hand, apparently. Above my head, I’m told.” He petulantly ignored the handkerchief. 

Mycroft leaned forward intently, wiping the corner of Greg’s mouth as Greg stood frozen. He replaced the handkerchief with his thumb, and said, “I like a man with an appreciation for food.” 

Greg cast desperately around for a distraction, turning around and grabbing a plate off of the table to put between the two of them. It happened to have a piece of cake on it. 

“Want some cake?” Greg asked wildly. Mycroft’s eyes appeared to light up from within, and a true smile crossed his face. 

“I do,” he purred. 

....................

John deliberately spun Sherlock off balance and they ended up dashed against a pillar, giggling madly. “You are going to love the Capitol, all of those people. Not all of them idiots!”

Sherlock looked startled, and suddenly very young; “You want me to go to the Capitol?”

“Of course you are coming with me. Even I can deduce that.” John smiled softly at Sherlock. “I’m surprised I even have to tell you how much I need you. Who else is going to call me in an idiot?”

“Notanidiot,” Sherlock mumbled, ducking his head into John’s neck. 

“I’m sorry, what was that? Can I get that in writing? In triplicate?” John laughed as Sherlock shoved him away before grabbing him close again. 

“I’m not going to be some kind of ridiculous Prince consort,” Sherlock said, and John snorted at the thought. “Of course not,” John said, “How does Royal Detective sound to you?”

Sherlock thought for a moment. “Royal Consulting Detective.”

“That can be arranged,” said the Prince, kissing his beloved madman.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally done. NEVER AGAIN.  
> Gah, who am I kidding.


End file.
